The Pulse Rifle was a reliable weapon. It was easy to use, simple to maintain, held plenty of ammunition, and hit hard enough—at least hard enough to deal with those absurdly numerous zombies. The demons that crawled out of Hell used them as vanguards, wearing down humanity's living strength.
That last part was just a theory from some scientists. Elf didn't care much about it. He figured the reason there were so many zombies was simply that there had been too many people.
When the disaster first broke out, someone had once said on television that when Hell was full, the deceased would return, or some nonsense like that. Elf didn't completely agree with him—such as all that crap about humanity being sinful, so God had sent down punishment—but he did agree with the bastard on one point.
There were too many people on Earth.
So now they had to maintain twelve hours of high-intensity combat every day to clear out the brainless zombies trying to approach the base.
He pulled the trigger, and the Pulse Rifle's gentle recoil gave him a rather comfortable response. Elf hummed a song, relaxing his mind so he would stop noticing the clothing on the zombies and the shapes of their bodies.
Two months ago, because of that, he had been completely unable to sleep. If he wanted any rest, he could only knock himself unconscious. So he had no choice but to turn to alcohol or drugs. If he didn't choose those helpful friends, then in the dark of his dreams he would only see what those people had looked like before they became zombies.
Men. Women. The elderly. Children.
It didn't matter anymore. He had pulled the trigger anyway. He had pulled it for the sake of those who were still alive.